NTKOG #112: The kind of angsty, chocolate-smeared loneyheart who spends V-Day with her equally man-hating girlfriends jabbing stickpins into the crotch of dumb-boy voodoo dolls.

I am: single.

I am not: bitter.

The Scene: My glorious cinnamon- and chocolate-scented apartment, V-Day evening. Anglophile came over and we discussed the douchebaggery of men in general (and a few men in particular) before deciding on our plan of attack for the evening. Dude, we decided, let’s list all the reasons we never liked them anyway! Then make voodoo dolls! And burn effigies of the pathetic motherfuckers! Uh, and did I mention chocolate?!

We gathered voodoo supplies and fired up the fondue pot. Cute idea, I thought, but we’re not actually going to do all this stereotypical shit. We’ll probably just end up watching a movie or something…

As for how it turned out. Um, I’m going to let the following pictures tell you a few thousand words. Don’t worry, though. I weeded out all the shriekingly scathing ones.

Turns out it only takes two vindictive girls, three pens, a jumbo pack of Post Its and one hour to completely cover the walls of a small apartment. Also, dude, some of these were so scathing that they burned my skin when I took them off the wall.

After determining Post-Its weren't sufficiently violent, wrote and popped some of the things we hated about dudes.

Voodoo dolls. To stuff them, we wrote down things we used to like about the guys, then shredded 'em. (But before you get all z0mg-dark-energy with me, yes, I believe in karma too much to have actually wished ill on anyone. It was pretty positive energy.)

Putting the "eff you" in effigy. What up.

The Verdict: It’s funny. This is the first Valentine’s Day in five years that I’ve been single. It’s also hands-down the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had — maybe one of the best days I’ve had, like, period. I thought all the V-Day man-bashing would feel too forced or stereotypical or just plain ol’ negative, but it was actually a pretty liberating night. One attempts to resist using the phrase “girl power,” but one doesn’t resist too hard.

The emphasis of the evening was less “I hope you get chlamydia of the face and die” and more like “dude, remember the shitty details and don’t let yourself get hung up on something that just really doesn’t matter that much.” Okay, okay, and there may have been a certain amount of emasculating joking. And doodling. And pin-sticking.

Still, this gets an A++ from me. Sometimes bitching about guys isn’t about men being idiots. It’s about remembering that the women you’re doing the bitching with are total badasses.

NTKOG #109: The kind of aggressive oversharer who uses her period as an excuse for everything and makes a valiant effort to keep the world at large up-to-date on her personal, uh, punctuation.

I am: one of those lucky few women whose periods just really aren’t a big deal. I barely notice it.

I am not: going to talk about it when I do notice it. I mean, unless it’s with my girlfriends, obvi, ’cause talking to women inevitably leads to discussions of menstrual blood and wedding plans.

The Scene: My uterus? So here’s a thing about periods, if any guys penetrated my severe warning and made it this far: they are fickle and perverse creatures. And there’s no quicker way to anger them than claiming that yours are never painful or aggravating. I thought of this NTKOG a few weeks ago, and laughed to myself, “Ohhh what an acting job! How could I complain about my light, pain-free period? It is practically a pleasure to host!” Cue me waking up three days later with hyperventilating, blinding, crying cramps. Thank you universe! Universe inside my reproductive system!

Anyway, set out to overshare in a variety of situations, from which, three vignettes:

Objective: Escape convenience store judgment: The Ex always argued I’m unnaturally concerned with the way people behind cash registers perceive me but, dude, you try buying red licorice and a Fresca at 10:59 PM from some translucent-skinny retail girl who weighs forty-five pounds — half eyeliner — and obviously had to filet herself to fit into her jeans. THERE WAS JUDGMENT! There was judgment.

Filet o’ salesclerk furrowed her brow for a sec when she looked at the licorice. I smiled: “Period. Crazy sugar craving, you know? Like mega period.” She looked up and gave the tiniest pulse of a smile. Foolish, heartened, I continued. “The worst part is I never see it coming. Then one day I realize I’m crying at 30 Rock and surrounded by empty pudding cups. Menstruation, eh?”

The smile wiped off her face as she gave a dignified moue of disgust. Sooooo. I guess I know whom I’m not asking if I ever need to borrow a tampon.

Objective: Tardiness with impunity: It has come to my attention, over the years, that girls periodically use their periods as an excuse for being late. I’m … just not at all sure why. But damned if I wasn’t going to give it a shot. Due to an admittedly avoidable cause, I was running about ten minutes late for the writing class I’m taking, which is taught by an elderly woman and attended by four other students. Awesome, dude. My Cher Horowitz moment.

TKOG: Sorry I’m late. I’m like super menstrual.Old Hippie Instructor: I’m sorry, what?TKOG: Oh, you know, I’m like on my period in a major way.
OHI: Wait, what does that have to do with you being late?TKOG: Uh, cramps?OHI: [reproving glance]TKOG: …midol?

Not quite as quotable as surfing the crimson tide, it transpired. And still haven’t solved the mystery of why periods excuse lateness!

Objective: Avoid credit card minimum in sourpuss convenience store: A different convenience store next to my house, the employees of which are positively draconian about their $5 credit card minimum (a policy which, btdubs, violates companies’ terms of agreement with credit card companies). I was picking up a travel pack of Advil to ward off a random headache, but the total came to $2.18 and I had no cash.

TKOG: Dude, seriously, please help me out here. I’m begging you.Surly Clerk: $5 minimum. Buy something else.TKOG: But I don’t need anything else! I’m on my period and I have terrible cramps and I need an Advil right flippin’ now.SC: Sure. If you pay in cash.TKOG: Dude, come on, my cramps are so bad that last night I dreamed I was giving birth to a llama.

True story, btdubs. Dude wouldn’t relent. So in desperation I glanced behind the counter at the tiny home-improvement section and, remembering the leaky aerator on my kitchen sink, asked him for a set of pliers. He rang ’em up and looked at me for just a moment, confused or at least a little surprised.

“Yeah,” I told him, ripping open the Advil as I walked to the door. “Just, like, in case a tampon gets stuck?”

You’re welcome for the visual, sir. You could have just sold me the damn Advil. But whatever, mind the mood swings, ’cause if you hadn’t heard, I had a good excuse.

The Verdict: Ugh, still not sure why women sometimes do this. I’ll admit I’m a little on the prim Victorian side when it comes to discussing bodily functions (except, apparently, on the blog — yikes), but I just don’t see what possible good can come from bringing up your period with people who aren’t actively seeking a menstrual-based conversation.

That said, as someone who enjoys behaving badly, I did quite appreciate the pale mottled shade of green the last guy turned. So. Keeping it in my bag of tricks as an emergency-conversation-escape smokebomb.

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TMI Thursday! Meta-TMI about giving TMI! Go look at Livit, Luvit for more TMI! Also, while we’re housekeeping: new comment policy, kittens. If your comment friggin’ creeps me out, I will delete it wantonly and without warning. This policy will not apply to 99.9999999% of comments, but I am hereby reserving the right forever.

A couple more days to enter to win a friggin’ iPod Nano! It’s red! And gets radio reception, apparently! I wouldn’t know because my iPod is like a 64kb iPod Mini. (Also, dudes, sorry for being totally blog-world absent this week: the computer at my new office doesn’t. do. internet.)

NTKOG #107: The kind of ethanol-fueled writerly type who knocks back a snootful in the privacy of her own parlour then commences to Creating Literature.

I am: partial to: 1) the occasional snort of brandy; 2) my own company; 3) pretending, and often, to be F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I am not: an alcoholic.

The Scene: My apartment. Alone. I’d spent a Saturday night out celebrating Porn Star’s birthday with Anglophile and some of his friends — a rambunctious night, capped at a skeezy bar ’til the last train home — but maintained only a buzz due to some combination of the prohibitive cost of alcohol and the fact that Porn Star and Anglophile are non-drinkers. In fact, through some confluence of medication-mixing, religion and incomprehensible personal preference, all of my Boston friends are non-drinkers. Kind of hard on a girl, what? Still, I’ve seen Lifetime Movies, and I know that when the going gets tough, the tough crack open a jaunty little Bordeaux.

I should have known that this NTKOG was turning against me when I realized I didn’t have a corkscrew. Apparently, in a fit of boozy benevolence, I left The Ex all of my corkscrews in the break-up. Still, have Merlot, will MacGyver. Spent ten minutes sitting on the edge of my bed with the upside-down wine bottle clamped between my knees, thwacking the bottom with the sole of one of my cowboy boots. This yielded nothing but a pissed-off neighbor. After a few more strange tricks, I ended up jabbing the rubberized cork with a pocket screwdriver and digging it out in a few large chunks.

Um, hope Delta Burke’s available to star in TKOG: The Movie.

After I filled up a coffee mug with the liberated rosé, learned three key lessons: 1) DO NOT PAY THREE DOLLARS FOR A BOTTLE OF WINE; 2) especially if you are drinking it by the bottle, and 3) have no sparkling conversation to distract you from the fact that you are drinking THREE DOLLAR ROSÉ.

What I hoped would happen: I’d engage in a witty inner monologue before loosening the muse and pounding out forty-five pages of wonderful and inexplicable fiction. (Not to brag, but Drunk TKOG is something of a wordsmith. You may know her from such literary masterpieces as: “What Grown-Ups Mean When They Say God Is Dead,” “Post-Prandial Depression And Other Erotica” and about sixty thousand regret texts peppered with esoteric interwar British naval slang.)

What actually happened: After a mug and a half of the godawful pink vinegar, I lost the will to continue swallowing, and ended up spending the next seven hours in a slowly sobering melancholy state, listening to The Weepies’ “Gotta Have You” on perma-repeat and obsessively google stalking myself.

Um, I thought booze was supposed to make you fun?

The Verdict: Oh lordy, this was a fail on so many levels. Turns out alcohol is, at best, a social performance enhancing drug and not in fact any sort of panacea. That much was old news. What I did learn, however: rock bottom isn’t just a figurative phrase. It is in fact a very literal term for the drop of wine you lick off a pocket screwdriver, alone, at 4:30am. Good lord. Never again.

Do not fail, loves, to enter to win an 8 gig iPod Nano (with video! and radio!) in my giveaway.

NTKOG #103: The kind of ‘roided-out angerball who, when life gives her lemons, punches a fruit vendor in his big ugly face.

I am: passive; afraid of touching people ever ever ever.

I am not: one for fisticuffs. Which you can probably tell. By the fact I call them fisticuffs.

The Scene: B-Line T, going from my apartment to Harvard Ave. It’s empty for a Wednesday morning — approximately half the seats full, but I stand in the alcove by the door because I do not have far to go. There is only one other dude standing with his back to me, a few feet away, between me and the exit. Half-Asian guy, college-aged, six feet tall and buff but also bulky, like he makes it to the gym every day then rewards himself with a few hot dogs. He’s wearing one of those puffy astronaut coats and standing, inexplicably, in the middle of the aisle.

Doors open and I start to dash off the train to my bus, which is already waiting across the street, when the guy suddenly spread-eagles himself between me and my chance getting to work on time. He reaches his arms up so that one is grasping the top rail on each side of the aisle, then spreads his legs so he is in jumping-jack position. His head kind of lolls to the side.

“Excuse me,” I say. His head lolls a bit more in the other direction. “Excuse me!” I prepare to run for the other exit, blaming kids these days with their earbuds and their weird subway-riding calisthenics, except right as I turn I realize — I have a clear shot of both ears. Guy isn’t listening to music. He’s just ignoring me. I”m the kind of girl who puts up with crap like that every day but no, not right now.

“DUDE, I need to get by!” I bellow like a moose, tapping on his shoulder through the puffcoat. “You very seriously need to move RIGHT FRIGGIN’ NOW!” He starts aimlessly scratching his nose.

So, I did what any normal girl would do. I punched him.

Okay, and before y’all start making citizens arrests all up in here, two points: 1) My biceps aren’t exactly registered as lethal weapons. Before the advent of touch-screen phones, I could barely punch in a phone number. 2) It was a punch in the middle in the back of what I’d call “no, seriously, stop tickling me!” strength.

Did the trick though. The dude instantly twirled on his heel, face a grotesque mask of slowly realized rage. The second he turned, I ducked under his arm and ran off into the morning.

I swear to you, though, and you can believe this as you like, that when I looked back, I locked eyes with the middle-aged woman who had been sitting in front of him, and who had witnessed the whole thing. She stared at me for one intense second, then slowly gave me a thumbs-up.

The Verdict: Man, I haven’t punched anyone since that time I punched Muscles — excellent to brag about! Terrible thing to actually do as a human being, of course. I would obviously never do this again (even though, really, the punch in question was more akin to a strident “scuse me!” shoulder tap, and the placement more than anything is what upped it to punchitude). Still, this did make me feel kind of like a take-no-shit commuter, which is a feeling I need to harness on those days when I stand passively by while strangers sneeze in my face and take gum out of my pockets.

I am honored today to present a guest post by the inimitable Sarah Von of yes and yes. If you don’t already read her site, you absolutely must check it out: she’s one of those gutsy, inspiring total badasses who we all dream of being, and every time I read a post, I leave absolutely grinning (even on these blah rainy New England days). Check out Sarah’s NTKOG experiment in my hometown — it’ll leave you shooting your beverage (not rancid fruity vodka, I hope) out your nose.

NTKOG: who enjoys a) fruit flavored liquor b) attracting the attention of everyone in the bar

I am: the girl who frequents tiny, hole-in-the-wall bars where I can be ignored while I nurse my vodka gimlet, thankyouverymuch.

I am not: a fan of theme bars, sports bars, watching alcohol-related spectacles or being a spectacle myself.

The Scene: The BFF and I were in Las Vegas, escaping the icy clutches of winter for a three-day weekend, eating our weight in buffets and attending ridiculous, vampire-themed Vegas shows. We had grand plans to meet up with an old friend from our hometown who’d been living in Vegas for nearly ten years. “Where would you like to meet, old friend? What sort of awesome, locals-only watering hole would you suggest?” “Why, how about this quaint little place called Kahunaville?” he responded.

Now, it is not a stretch to say that Kahunaville? It was probably my arch-nemesis bar. I could not have created, from scratch, a bar that appalled me more. It was as though someone had reached into my brain and read my list of Things That I Never, Ever Want to See in a Bar. Things like:
1) Flat screen TVs broadcasting a football game
2) Waitresses wearing skimpy Hawaiian outfits, handing out flower necklaces, asking if you want to get ‘lei-d’
3) Incredibly loud techno music
4) Drinks that stream/explode/are served with fifteen toys/flowers/straws in them.

Yes, I am actually 65 years old on the inside, in case you were wondering. If you want me, I’ll just be over here muttering about those damn kids having too much fun with their skinny jeans and flavored beers.

While we waited for our friend to join us, the BFF and I tried to yell a conversation at each other over the sounds of Akon and she picked an umbrella, two test tubes, a fake starfish and a skewer of fruit out of her drink. But then? Things got interesting.

In an attempt to make Kahunaville even more entertaining, apparently the management employs trick bartenders. And apparently the half-time of the football game was performance time. Just as we were settling into our $15 cocktails, an announcer came striding through the bar, with a microphone instructing us to “Get the F*ck up! I want to hear you scream!”

With that statement sir, you have now just guaranteed that I will sit here silently glaring.

As we watched, each of the bartenders on the three sides of the bar put a whistle in their mouths and began one of those Cocktail-caliber drink mixing routines. Juggling mixers! Catching the mixer on top of the vodka bottle! Throwing cherries into the air and catching them on toothpick in their mouths! All of this was accompanied by a promotional video about each other bartenders tauting their wins at various ‘flair competitions’ and previous occupations (Our guy was a former Chip n Dale’s dancer)

To be totally honest, it was pretty impressive, but once the announcer encouraged us stand on the tables and scream for free shots, I decided to clap sedately in my seat. Because I’m an a-hole like that.

But as luck would have it, our side of the bar apparently won the hollering contest because, before you could say “pink favored vodka,” Steve “Big Show” Shrearer was standing on the bar handing out shots. By this time, I had approached the bar out of pure curiosity. I backed away from the bar as the free shots were coming around and was internally grateful when he ran out.

But as I turned around to head back to the table, the BFF shook her head at me, grinning and pointing back at the bar. I spun around, with what I’m sure was a look of total horror on my face to see Mr. Big Show, astride the bar. He was staring me down and doing his best former-stripper finger-curling, come-hither gesture, and pointing at his mix bottle and then at me.

I would be lying if I did not say that I wanted to immediately turn on my heal, walk to the bathroom and hide out there for the next twenty minutes. But I honestly channeled a bit of our girl NTKOG and thought “Von Bargen, you get outside your comfort zone. You go up there and let that man pour fruit flavored alcohol down your throat while everyone cheers.”

So I did. I stood next to the bar while a man nicknamed ‘Big Show’ stood five feet above me and poured pink alcohol down my gullet. All the people standing on their tables whooped, I successfully avoided coughing, choking or melting into the floor with embarrassment. Then I walked back to our table, licked off that tiny umbrella and drank two test tubes full of vodka.

The Verdict: I didn’t die – of embarrassment or alcohol poisoning. I’m glad I bucked up and tried something new, but at the end of the day, I’m just more of a corner-booth, nurse-my-whiskey Kind of Girl. I think this is a situation where what happens in Vegas, truly stays in Vegas. Unless you write about it on the internet, I guess.

GUYS! Today I have a guest post up at sandyb’s blog! Sandy is, like me, a woman on a self-improvement mission: she has a list of goals to accomplish before she turns 30 this August (and she’s a fantastic writer to boot!). She asked me to make my own list and — look, guys, it isn’t pretty — I may or may not have stripped down my defenses and admitted a few goals that I had been afraid even to voice to myself. So. You can read it, but you can’t make fun of me afterwards, okay?

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NTKOG #98: The kind of ethically ambiguous social butterfly who doesn’t let a bouncer, cover charge or guest list get in the way of her attending a private event.

I am: completely happy curled up in bed watching House; if I have to go somewhere, fine, but I’m not going to go out of my way to bust in.

The Scene: BU Alumni Winterfest, late afternoon, a wine and chocolate tasting that has been sold out for weeks. WINE, guys. And CHOCOLATE. Finances, ethics and doorcheck mortification be damned. After a long afternoon in the biting Massachusetts weather, I imagined myself creeping in like a saintly orphan from a Victorian children’s novel, begging an elegiac old chocolatier named Jacque to spare me a single truffle, hand-dipped in finest chocolate and dusted with desiccated fairy wings. Later, he would adopt me and, after a few endearing mishaps, I would teach him to once again let love into his heart.

Uh, the point is, I was craving some chocolate. Apparently to the point of delusion.

Sister, Hot Hands and I, along with a few other people, headed down to the event room, the door of which was — curses! — flanked with event organizers toting color-coded guest lists. Our group split into small factions to test the waters, but when a girl asked if there was any chance of coming in or buying a ticket at the door, she was immediately rebuffed.

“These tickets have been sold out all week,” a gentleman who was, honestly, too old to be wearing a lanyard grimaced down at his clipboard. “Try again next year.”

While Sister discussed our options with her group of friends, I boosted her wallet from her purse and stole two dollars. I was halfway to the clipboard crew when Sister grabbed my elbow.

“No! No! Whatever you’re doing, you need to stop it. You’re going to get us kicked out!” she blurted, restraining me with one hand.

“Dude, I’m not trying to bribe my way in. I’m not an idiot. I had a really good plan.” She furrowed her eyebrows in disbelief. “See, if I can’t get in, I thought I could get chocolate out. Hey, clipboard lady, George Washington and his twin here want to know if you can liberate a few truffles. See?! Not embarrassing at all!”

Fortunately for me, Sister was too busy fussing over her ransacked wallet to punch me; unfortunately, she wasn’t so busy that she loosened her deathgrip on my sleeve.

“I guess we could try the back door,” shrugged one of the girls we came downstairs with. “Maybe someone will open it when they leave.” An apathetic grumble went up from the group, ’cause surely an event with such rigorous chocolate policing would think to post a sentry at all exits — surely the door would be locked — surely … shit, we were in. That was easy.

Anti-climactically easy, in fact. Sister refused to enter, citing some sort of alleged principles, but Hot Hands and I barged back in and bee-lined for the chocolate tables. Which were, honestly, disappointing. Not one single sea-salt truffle, hand-dipped by my fantasy Jacque du Chocolat; no edible gold or decorative piping; there wasn’t even that much chocolate. To wit: small vats of irregular chunks of broken Lindt bars in various cacao denominations. Hot Hands and I gamely conducted a blind taste-test to see which of the four percentages of dark chocolate we liked the best (50% dark was the mutual selection), knocked back two Dixie cups of wine (“The bouquet is so — uh — fruity? Look, do you know anything about wine?” “Nope. It just tastes like wine to me.” “Me too!”), and sneaked out as inauspiciously as we had entered.

The Verdict: Huh, turns out that the Little Rascals trick of loitering by the exit is more than just a vaudeville trope. I kind of want to try this in other venues now, like concert halls or — more likely, considering the level of intrigue in my daily life — to sneak into Trader Joe’s after they’ve stopped letting in new customers for the evening. On the whole, though, the event wasn’t worth all the excitement and subterfuge of our entrance; I wouldn’t have been psyched if I’d had to pay the $10 cover charge. So, moral of the story? Next time I’m on the fence about an event with a cover charge, I might try this again, if only because it adds a flavor of adventure to even the most routine proceedings.

Also, must use the George Washington’s twin brother bribery line somewhere, if only to spark a debate over GW’s family tree.

NTKOG #89: The kind of hopeless, anonymous romantic who meets a man at random and — after losing him in the crowd — throws a (metaphorical) message in a bottle to catch him again.

I am: in the habit of falling in love with half a dozen men a day.

I am not: so short of great lost loves that I need to dig them back up on the internet, it stands to reason.

The Scene: The Brookline Booksmith (aka: Brookline’s literary Disneyland), shortly after moving here. I had a moment with the clerk after purchasing a book from the bargain table and — thuTHUD, is the sound of TKOG falling in love. For months, I would get all dolled up before browsing the bsmith, in hopes of meeting him, but alas, I never saw him again.

Enter Craigslist Missed Connections. Because surely a dude who reads George Saunders can read a measly little personals ad, right? Attached, verbatim, is the ad I posted last Thursday:

I: came in sometime in September. Fast-talking brunette with black plastic-rimmed Weezer glasses.

We: bonded over a mutual love for George Saunders when I bought a copy of “In Persuasion Nation” off the bargain table.

You: asked if I had read any Barthelme.

I: am reading “60 Stories” as we speak.

You: were my imaginary boyfriend until you stopped working there at some point within the past few months.

I: miss having a reason to put on make-up on Saturday mornings.

You: got any more great book recommendations?

Looooove,
Your Former Imaginary Girlfriend (unbeknownst to you)

No word back yet; not even a book recommendation from a stranger. Oh well. That’s the thing about messages in bottles, I guess: sometimes they’re washed away forever, sometimes they’re found by someone else entirely. Almost never are they discovered by the person you intended.

The Verdict: I still totally support this one. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I was nervous about posting a Missed Connection in the first place — aside from the fact that when I see a guy I like, Itendtodosomethingaboutit. But next time I miss my chance with someone, I would completely try this again, because what’s the worst that could happen?

Actually, the worst that could happen is that Booksmith Guy could email me back: “You, TKOG, like so many other George Saunders-loving brunettes, have been driven to the brink of madness by my pomo literary tastes and badass tattoos. Based on your prose style, might I recommend The Da Vinci Code?”

Man. That would be horrible. Please don’t do that, Bookstore Guy! Otherwise, I’m down with Missed Connections.